


A Serious Condition

by berlynn_wohl



Series: Oh, Doctor Watson! [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Time, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Medical Kink, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing a Bed, Victorian Attitudes, Virgin Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 05:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17095100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: Cold-weather bed-sharing + Victorian ideas about sex + mild medical kink = baby's first ACD!Holmes/Watson fic.





	A Serious Condition

It was past ten o’clock in the evening when Holmes presented Lady Smythe-Grey with her grandmother’s manuscript. The only copy in existence, Lady Smythe-Grey’s conniving uncle had stolen it in hopes of gleaning the location of certain properties and precious jewels he was certain had been hidden from him, to prevent him from inheriting them – and subsequently pawning them so that he might alleviate his onerous gambling debts.

I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the chap; where he was off to now, he was in danger of finding himself in close quarters with some of the hardened villains to whom he owed money.

As for Holmes and myself, in addition to a generous cash reward, we were offered one more night’s stay at the Smythe-Grey estate, Athelden Manor, before catching the train back to London in the morning.

Had there been a night train available, I might have suggested to Holmes that we avail ourselves of it; the room I had been given for the duration of our stay was grimly cold. It had no fireplace, and the bed-warming brick I was provided with never delivered me wholly from the room’s damp chill. Our lodgings at Baker Street were no palace, but I longed for them now.

As there was no train, however, once the manuscript was back in Lady Smythe-Grey’s hands, we trudged, Holmes from fatigue and I from dread, to our respective rooms. Closing a case wherein there had been no loss of life can often be a happy occasion, but on this particular evening I dearly wished that the heirs of dilapidated country estates only lost their precious things in the late summer, when it was much more pleasant to get out of London for a while.

I huddled under the blankets in my big, freezing bed, the brick warming my toes but leaving the rest of me shivering, when the door to my room clicked and swung open, revealing a dim silhouette. Could it be a vengeful relative who had taken the uncle’s side in the inheritance matter? Or perhaps he had a henchman of some sort? But before I could reach for my pistol, I heard a voice, recognisable even at the softest whisper.

“Watson?” Closing the door behind him, Holmes remarked, “I’ve just realised, my room is quite draughty.”

I couldn’t help but snort with laughter. How lucky for Holmes, that when he was on a case, he was so single-minded. It was perfectly plausible that he had not noticed the wintry conditions until just now.

Without so much as a by-your-leave, he now crept straight to my bed, lifted the covers, and climbed in beside me. “It will be warmer in here with you, I’m certain.”

Aside from a hiccup of shock as Holmes let what little warmth I had managed to collect out, I did not protest. Holmes was my dear friend, and I would never deny him any succour I could offer – as whip-thin as he was, Holmes was not suited for these winter conditions, and he likely had come to the sensible conclusion that our bodies together would keep us warmer than if we were to carry on struggling individually against the chill. It was nothing I hadn’t done with my fellow soldiers in Afghanistan: when the nights turned freezing, we would huddle together for any bit of heat, unconcerned with how it might look to a civilian observer, were one to somehow appear.

When Holmes settled down in the bed facing away from me, I was not certain whether it was out of politeness – a gentleman compelled to share a bed with another gentleman, turning to make himself as inconspicuous and unobtrusive as possible – or whether it was an invitation, a suggestion. I thought of those comrades of mine, how we slept back-to-front, back-to-front, each of us hoping for one of the middle spots each night, so that we might enjoy comfortable warmth on both sides.

But Holmes said nothing to indicate one stance or the other on the matter. I waited a few minutes in the quiet darkness, listening to his breathing as it slowed and steadied, then inched closer. Even before I came close enough to touch him, I felt a slight but enticing heat radiating from him. He did not stir.

I could stay here, and enjoy this little bit of extra warmth, and not risk overstepping my bounds…but perhaps, I thought, it wouldn’t hurt to move another inch closer.

When the space between us grew warmer, and thus even more tantalising, I couldn’t help but think that it would be alright – only this once, mind you – to just touch my chest to Holmes’ back. Any more than that and something embarrassing might occur. Not for any unsavory reason, of course, only the male body sometimes has a mind of its own, and I did not want anything to assert itself against Holmes’ hip or thigh and give him the wrong idea.

As I brought myself as close as I dared, I held my breath, waiting to hear a protest from Holmes. None was forthcoming. I sighed, thinking that now at last, warm and – dare I say it – cosy, I could get some sleep. Instead, I soon found that all that anxiousness and unfounded trepidation had gotten my blood pumping, and I was not sleepy at all. I tried to calm myself with deep, slow breaths, concentrating on relaxing my limbs, and not on how near those limbs were to Holmes’.

I am certain I was near dozing when Holmes whispered, “Watson. I’m afraid I may need to ask your medical opinion on something.”

Of all things, I was not expecting to hear that. “This is an odd time and place for a consultation,” I replied.

“It’s a recent development. Very recent. But I’m afraid my condition has already become acute.”

If I wasn’t mystified by his initial statement, I was entirely baffled now. “Shall I put the light on?” I asked.

“I’d prefer you didn’t, actually.” With this, he turned to face me; though the room was entirely dark, the thick curtains shut against the cold, I could now, just barely, feel his breath on my face.

“Can you perhaps… _tell_ me where your complaint is?” I offered.

“It’s very embarrassing,” was all Holmes said.

I had never known Holmes to be bashful about the human body. He did tend to be modest, and fastidious in his hygiene, but never did he blush when explaining to me some client’s or criminal’s personal details, whether it was a physical deformity, an amorous indiscretion, or an inventive method of smuggling small valuables. But, one might well become more reticent when referring to their _own_ body, understandably.

For a moment, perhaps in denial about the obvious direction in which things were playing out, I suspected he might be suffering some sort of digestive discomfort. I reached out and placed my hand over his xiphoid process, just where his stomach would be. “Are you feeling distress here?”

“Lower,” Holmes said.

My hand slid across his fine woolen nightshirt, resting over his navel, and the lower element of his gastrointestinal tract. “Here?”

“A little lower,” Holmes said.

My hand traveled further down, past where his nightshirt was bunched up, and I encountered his erect penis, suddenly straining and hot in my palm. He gasped softly, and then I knew that I had strolled right into a seduction.

Or had I? Holmes’ next words seemed tinged with genuine concern. “It’s been like that for long enough that it’s becoming painful, distressing even,” he said. “I would much appreciate it if you could recommend a suitable treatment.”

I hesitated to move or speak in any way, knowing I should first consider my response carefully. I could not believe that Holmes did not understand what his body was doing, or why; no grown man could be so naïve. Then again, I had found him in the past to be astoundingly ignorant of some of the most basic human knowledge. Though highly implausible, I supposed it was possible that his own physiological reflexes, if they were irrelevant to his pursuits of the mind, the sciences, the criminal element, might have remained a mystery to him.

I couldn’t help but suspect, however, that this was some sort of ruse, a test, to see how I would react, or perhaps even a bit of humour at my expense. It would be entirely uncharacteristic of Holmes to behave in such a way when it came to personal matters, but whenever he did behave uncharacteristically, it always turned out to be for a practical reason in the end.

I resolved, then, to treat this matter with the utmost medical seriousness, a path which I could not be in any way ridiculed or incriminated for taking. My touch was professional and routine: I found that his foreskin slid back and forth over the crown easily – no sign of phimosis. Holmes whimpered as I tested this once or twice more, just to be sure. I felt along his member for bumps, lesions, or irregularities (finding none), and asked him as I did so, “Have you not experienced this condition before?”

“Very occasionally in the past, I suppose. But since we took up lodgings together, I have found that your presence seems to precipitate it.”

“Not during your adolescence, though…?”

“That was a long time ago, and I was probably preoccupied with other things, if it happened.”

“You don’t have any experience taking care of this discomfort yourself?”

“I have heard about how the problem is dealt with, but is it not dangerous to do so? It is my understanding that to cause oneself to have an emission is the height of folly, as it invariably results in ill health and feeble-mindedness.”

It was still impossible for me to tell if Holmes was being entirely serious. Yes, the conventional wisdom these days, amongst the general populace and the medical community, was that masturbation was a harmful practice which should be avoided at all costs – even if it meant discouraging such urges by wearing painful devices or sticking to a miserably bland diet. However, my experience as a physician told me that all that was a lot of stuff and nonsense – even before meeting Sherlock Holmes, I understood the wrong-headedness of coming up with theories based on one’s own moral, social, or religious inclinations and then using (or discarding) actual evidence to reinforce those beliefs. Had I ever seen a patient whose physical or mental maladies could be definitively attributed to self-abuse? No. And here I must confess that my dismissal of such notions was also based on personal experience – if making a habit of pleasuring oneself too frequently in one’s youth resulted in feeble-mindedness and physical collapse, surely I could not have received a medical degree and qualified for military service?

And Holmes, I would like to think, would be similarly suspicious of the desire for social control that lay behind these supposed medical facts being peddled, but as I’ve mentioned, he did have his blind spots. And so I could still not be certain whether he was playacting. I proceeded as if he were not.

It was too dark to examine any discharge visually, but I did squeeze his member until I could get a smear of pre-ejaculate on my fingertips, which I held to my nose. No foul odor, just an inoffensive musk. Nonetheless, I gripped his cockstand once more, and said, with all seriousness, “This is a serious condition indeed. You are quite swollen and distended. It is fortunate you came to me with this problem. With a doctor’s supervision, it is possible to relieve this condition with no fear of harm.”

“I’m so happy to hear that,” Holmes sighed. I strained to catch a hint of lechery in his voice, but I detected none, only relief and gratitude.

Whether this was to be an act of mercy or a lascivious interlude, there was no chance that I would not be proceeding with the act at this point. But now I was faced with the question: how should one administer a clinical treatment that was really just the simple act of frigging someone? I decided that the key elements should be a firm, confident grip and a steady rhythm. Were I to tickle or tease him, the game would be given away. And I desperately wanted to avoid doing anything that might bring things to a bad end. I was grateful for the utter darkness, as it prevented me looking Holmes in the eye, even for a second, and inadvertently catching a hint of irony there, or indeed giving away my own doubts about his seriousness.

I pumped his cockstand with detached efficiency, our collective exertions creating a wonderful tropical heat beneath the covers, for which I was inexpressibly grateful. Holmes succumbed to my touch beautifully, relaxing into it, demurring only briefly and in the flimsiest way: “Oh, doctor,” he rasped, “your treatment is so wonderfully soothing. But are you sure it is safe?”

Being addressed in this manner by a close friend was unexpectedly exciting, and I struggled to keep my composure. “I took a solemn vow never to do harm,” I assured him. “Everything I’m doing is according to the standard clinical procedure. Intense pleasure is merely a side effect, and perfectly normal.”

“Oh good, good, thank you, doctor.” Holmes’ gusting breaths and tremulous sighs filled me with scintillating anticipation, but it occurred to me just then that a gush of hot spendings, while thoroughly erotic for a moment, would soon become an undesirable mess. My handkerchiefs were out of reach, and the only towel was across the room, by the washstand. However, with a minimum of effort, I could reach down and tug the cotton cloth away from the warming brick at our feet, and now held it in my free hand, ready to employ it at a moment’s notice.

But before I resumed my steady tugging at Holmes’ twitching, pulsating erection, I wondered how I myself should find relief, as his condition was apparently contagious. I still had it in mind that I was administering a treatment, but my judgment was becoming fuzzier. Perhaps, in the heat of the final moments, I could see that my own desirous prick found satisfaction as well, without negative consequence. Even in these few seconds of hesitation, Holmes was begging for me to resume, so I saw no reason not to cant my hips and slide my cockstand right up alongside his as I recaptured it in my hand.

“Hah, _oh_ …” was all Holmes could say.

Though I could not see his glistening coral glans emerging from its silky-slick foreskin, nor my own, I could hear the wet sounds that the frigging made, and I formed a picture in my mind, and that was enough to make me moan and sigh in turn. We worked our bodies against each other with abandon, squirming and slippery. I could sense Holmes’ limbs quivering with ecstasy; how I longed to touch him all over, to clutch him and hold him, to find some way to clinically administer caresses, to legitimately prescribe passionate kisses.

Only with the last splinter of my reasoning mind did I think to clap the cloth over ourselves as we both reached our crisis, erupting in my grip. Holmes howled like a wounded animal as he spent, as though he were utterly shocked by what was happening to him now. He turned his head to muffle these sweet cries with a pillow, lest we be caught out. For myself, I grunted, and perhaps uttered some foolish endearment, as I am wont to do in my most vulnerable bliss.

When we were all finished, I twisted to the right to toss the cloth to the floor, and wondered if I should even bother to resume my previous, clinical air. I was hoping that perhaps Holmes might fall into my arms as I rolled back, to save me having to take the initiative, but instead I found him still in quite a state, his breaths rapid and shivery, softly vocalising with each exhalation.

“I say, I hope you did not find that unpleasant,” I said. “I seem to have left you in a panic.”

“Do not be concerned,” Holmes gasped. “I am somewhat overwhelmed, to be sure, but I remain unharmed. Might I get your reassurance just one more time, though, that your treatment is perfectly safe? No ill effects or deleterious consequences?”

I patted him on the arm. “You have my word, as a physician and as your friend.”

After a long pause, during which time he seemed to regain his composure somewhat, Holmes ventured, “So there would be nothing wrong with your administering this treatment in the future, should I require it?”

I grinned a mile wide in the darkness, then stated matter-of-factly, “No reason at all not to do it, if it does indeed become necessary.”

“You don’t know how happy I am to hear that.” Holmes put his hand over mine on his arm. “It is invaluable to me that I have such a talented doctor, with such skillful hands, at my disposal. I only hope you will forgive me for interrupting your sleep with my discomfort. Let us try to put things as they were. If I recall correctly, we were positioned like this.” He turned his back to me, settling under the covers, but reached back to take my arm and wrap it round himself, so that my hand now rested on his chest. That was not, in fact, how we had been positioned, and I knew that he knew it was not, but I was not about to correct him.

**Author's Note:**

> berlynn-wohl on Tumblr and Pillowfort for more of this sort of nonsense. I also used to be something of a BBC!Johnlock fic writer, and you can check those out here on AO3. :)


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